


Hopesfire

by kagrena (spacemagic)



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: First Council Era, First Council Politics, Gen, Lesbian Character, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemagic/pseuds/kagrena
Summary: It is a deeply held tradition, amongst the Dwemer, to gift their dearest ones, those they would love for all their lives, a tool crafted by their own hand. It is deeply held tradition, Dumac told her, in a steam garden that smelled of old roses, that she must toss aside. His hands were rich with promises, full of favours. Beneath them, one might have noticed his hands were cupped as if to beg."I did it because I am a pragmatist, first and foremost," said the Chief Tonal Architect, to her lover, weeks later, as her hands traced along the blade. "I cannot ignore politics. Not for the sake of misplaced sentimental value.""So then, tell me, Kagrena: why is it so exquisite? Why is it so beautiful, if it is not a thing of sentiment?"
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Hopesfire

It is past twilight in Kagrenac’s workshop. The electric lights are still winking and the machines are still whirring - for they never truly stop - but all of the Dwemer who usually toil in this palace of cold brass and sonorous echoes have gone home. Save two.

“I really don’t understand why you are making this so difficult for yourself,” yells Bthemetz, across the room. She appears - at first glance - to be made entirely out of metal, and she is leaning backwards on a chair, with her legs propped up on a table, hands twirling in such a fluid gesture that it would be quite impossible to mistake her for an automaton. “I mean to say... Well. You have made ornate swords before. You have, in fact, made an extraordinarily high number of such things - I will not say countless, because you will prove me wrong by counting them, but it is an _almost_ countless number - and could be said, actually, to be The True Expert on ornate swords - and don't you start, I won't entertain any nonsense about better artisans, or smiths, I'm not hearing it - because I bet you’d have _invented_ them, if you’d been born early enough. You could craft the most breathtaking blade the world has ever seen in your sleep. Why fuss so much?”

From beyond a haze of steam a second Dwemer has been hammering metal into shape. Had been. The remark causes her to stop. She places her hammer down and her tongs in water with the most satisfying sizzle, and removes her gloves and mask. She is wiping the sweat from her brow as she walks past the curtain of steam.

“It is for Indoril Almalexia,” says Kagrenac. “It has to be perfect.”

Bthemetz sits up, and leans forward, elbows on the table, with a rather sudden, graceless clatter.

“So tell me honestly, then. Without all those usual excuses you make for the Chimer. Is she really all that important? Truly?”

Kagrenac snorts at the question. “The Chimer believe so. And so, she is.”

“I am asking if _you_ believe so.”

“What I think is inconsequential. She is a queen. What she says and does is of a lesser importance than that.”

“What you think is _inconsequential?_ Gods help us.”

"The Chimer believe it is."

Bthemetz simply stares at her. Even beyond a hard brass mask that cannot bend, some looks, between partners, can express everything and more.

“If you insist,” says Kagrenac, pulling a chair out, and carefully placing herself on it. She steeples her fingers together in a practised, fluid motion. “What I think is that despite her noble titles, she is not a puffed-up aristocrat. Perhaps she was a pawn, a convenient puppet queen for the Nords in Mournhold once - but I have seen relatively little evidence of that remaining in my dealings with her. She gives grounded, practical suggestions about how to run a military campaign, much of which has proven crucial over the course of time. I value what she says above most other members of the First Council. Including a few of our own.” 

There is a short pause, in which she briefly looks to the side, and then back, to Bthemetz, before she continues.

“She is rather young, perhaps. I forget how little of the world she has seen outside of walled cities and palaces, at times. ”

When she finishes saying this, she folds her hands neatly into her lap. For a moment, there is a quiet lull. Bthemetz, to her credit, lets the silence sit, giving it enough space to ponder for a few moments, before it grows cold.

“Well. This is rather remarkable praise, from you, Kagrena.”

“I thought you were going to make a quip about how you usually prefer a Queen’s head on pike. You have rather exacting standards for monarchs.”

“Oh. I mean, well, yes, technically speaking, I am no great lover of self-appointed tyrants, of which there seem to be a countless - yes, _countless_ \- number amongst the allies we have gotten nice and cosy in bed with, aren't there? Oh -- don't give me that expression. I know you. I know you are not exactly enamoured with the Chimer or their ways either.” She leans forward, and her voice lowers, into something that could be mistaken for sincere, if one did not know better. “She must have made a great impression on you.”

Kagrenac, to this, says nothing, and looks off into the distance. Bthemetz holds in what appears to be a sigh, before placing her hands together in a sudden clap.

“Tell me something fun about her,” she says, with such a tone Kagrenac is sure she is grinning awfully behind that mask.

“About _Almalexia_?”

“Something fun about this woman you must clearly be obsessed with, spending all your waking hours crafting her the perfect, most exquisite blade for her.”

Kagrenac snorts, half a crooked smile on her face. “Clearly obsessed.”

“ _Clearly_ ,” says Bthemetz, leaning in closer.

“Well,” says Kagrenac. “She _clearly_ doesn't think too highly Nerevar.”

“Anyone with half a brain hates Nerevar, Rena.”

Kagrenac can’t help but cackle at this. With a touch of guilt, after the fact - the thought of poor Dumac, so renowned for his excellent taste, still so besotted with this man, comes to mind suddenly. It is difficult to imagine Almalexia feeling the same way.

“Well, I don’t exactly mean in the typical sense,” she adds.

“Oh?”

“I believe she doesn’t like men much. I would not be surprised if she were a lesbian.”

“Almalexia? A lesbian?” says Bthemetz. “Oh, now I _know_ you must be having me on.”

“What’s so difficult to believe about that?”

“It’s not her, it’s just…. oh, it’d just be cruel, otherwise. What sort of self-respecting lesbian wouldn’t jump straight into your arms when presented with an excellent sword? One of _yours_ , even? One of the finest and most elegantly crafted blades in all the land?”

“The sort that is to be married to Nerevar.”

Bthemetz looks to Kagrenac. She is not smiling. She is looking, again, to the side.

Bthemetz sits back and places her hands on her knees and looks down.

There is a moment of silence, and it is colder than an Nordic winter.

“The Chimer seem to think so little of love, don’t they?” says Bthemetz, not particularly to Kagrenac, not particularly to anyone. “All these marriages, and not an ounce of love between them.”

Kagrenac looks away. They were necessary for the establishment of political stability, was the stock answer that was on the edge of her tongue. Most of Bthemetz’s quibbles about the Chimer were so typically Dwemeri - spoken without having ever seen a Chimer settlement, or having negotiated with their nobles or their priests or their clansmen. Everything felt so strange at a distance. Yet, this complaint seemed to resonate with some truth. It was bitter, it was, to see people in love suffer so for politics.

“I think I might make the blade blue,” says Kagrenac, after a while.

“Ah?”

“The other blade will be red. This blade should be blue.”

Bthemetz places her hand in her chin. “Like an ocean?” she asks. “Or perhaps more like an open sky?”

Kagrenac smiles then. It is slight, a gentle thing, rarely seen, a softness not many get to know.

“Perhaps like an ocean, yes. Perhaps an open sky too.”

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at: https://kagrena.tumblr.com/post/190098539800/it-is-past-twilight-in-kagrenacs-workshop-the
> 
> one of my favourite pieces; I wanted to put it up on AO3 to share as well. Enjoy!


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